


Yrs Forever

by Starlord2004



Category: Hamilton - Fandom
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hamilton works day and night like a good little boi, Henry Laurens's A+ Parenting, Henry Lee's A+ perception abilities, John Laurens is a cinnamon roll all the time, John fell freaking HARD, M/M, This isn't completely historically accurate just let me live my life, a lot of puking, i swear to god it's good I actually did work very hard on this, im not dead, please read this, what am i doing anymore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-23 14:58:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11992143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starlord2004/pseuds/Starlord2004
Summary: John Laurens has just joined the Continental Army against the better judgement of his father and wife, not that their opinions could sway him. When he arrives in the camp, he meets a man who he simply cannot keep his mind off of. What is to be said? The best and most memorable things happen in the army.





	1. Ribbon

August 9, 1777  
Somewhere near Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

I shift uncomfortably in my saddle as my breaches, which are soaked in sweat, chafe harshly against my thighs. I have had over a day to become accustomed to the nagging texture of cloth against leather, yet my discomfort is only growing. My legs are captured by inimitable aching, and the same goes for my arms. My muscles are tense, allowing their shape to be showcased through the worn, blue, ragged material that makes up the majority of my uniform. The powers of sleep and weakness lull over my being. It is not only I who suffers from this misfortune. My horse has also begun to falter. She is tripping over her steps. If a small patch of grass is out of place compared to the rest, then she will stumble. I pity her, for her condition is far less bearable than mine. As I shakily extend my pain-ridden arm in a limp-like fashion in order to stroke the poor girl's neck, I glance upward at the land that lies before me.

To my delight, I am met with the sight of General George Washington's camp in the distance. The sun radiates its ungrateful rays relentlessly into my eyes, but I can still manage to make out the small wooden and stone hut on a lush, green hill; Washington's headquarters. Images of hope and satisfaction flow freely through my mind. I'll soon show my father that the choice I have made is the smartest thing I could've done. Honestly, the fact that he even cares how much I'm separating myself from the family is beyond me. All my life there has never been a single moment at my home when I was not suffering continuous ridicule from my father. The only future that he sees for me is the future that he has created in his limited and reserved mind. Even in my childhood, he wrote countless excuses and explanations for my behavior that he has hence forth labeled, "Unnatural." 

The one thing that everyone should consider "unnatural" are his expectations for me. He expected me to stay in London. As if I was going to waste my life in that godforsaken country. My wife is very capable of living independently. I left my wedding band with her, so that should give her some form of assurance. The only reason that I ever married Martha in the first place was because of that child. Of course, I will write to my dear girl inquiring about the infant when the time comes, but I will always know that the baby was a mistake. A drunken mistake. Pity has obliged me to marry. I am aware that my dear Martha feels deep love and affection for her husband, but I am afraid that I cannot find the ability within myself to return her devotion. I have no interest in women, but obviously it is far too dangerous to tell others of my emotions.

Once I set all of my thoughts aside, I realize that I have arrive at the camp. I gradually bring my horse to a halt, scanning over the terrain with a meticulous gaze. Soldiers and aides wander tiredly throughout rows of tents and ammunition. I observe a small number of men who acknowledge my arrival. One of them calls his friend to attention. He gestures to me and then says something to his companion. My guess, and most likely the most accurate conclusion at that, is that they recognize me because of my father. They recognize me as John Laurens, the senator's son. I would assume nothing more.

"Greetings and salutations," I snap out of my dazed stupor as I hear a clear and well-projected voice from beside my horse. I direct my gaze downward and to my left. A man stands at my side with a confident expression that stretches across the length of his face l. He holds out his hand to me so that he can assist me in dismounting.

"Hello," I nod down to the man calmly. Instead of emitting a small gesture in return, as most would, the man only stands his ground and sharpens his expression. He quite noticeably stiffens his palm and entirely drops the subtle grin from his lips. "I do not require assistance to get down from my horse," I inform the man, making sure to be careful with my tone. Something about this man makes me interpret him as somewhat of a predator figure. I am the prey. I truly do not know why my mind is doing this. I tell myself to stood but I fear that it might bot pose as a task as easy as just mental instruction. 

"I am but only attempting to be helpful, and I was sent here to greet you. If I were you, and I assure you that others will most certainly agree, I would accept my offer, Mister John Henry Laurens, son of South Carolina senator, Henry Laurens," the man sneers. His words confirm my hypothesis that the General has heard from my father. His arguments may be valid, but his complaints will forever remain inaudible in my ear. I finally bring myself to veer away from my thoughts. I reluctantly place my hand in the palm of the man that I have just met. His fingers grasp firmly around my own and support a good portion of my weight as I step down from my steed.

"Thank you," I address the man's actions accordingly. As I become fully level with my surroundings, I find that I must look down in order to be able to see the man who has welcomed me. I laugh quietly to myself as I notice how small this man is. I tower above him, as I do with most, but more so than usual. The man glares up at me with deep, violet-indigo eyes. I can detect the fire that burns within his irises, ready to pelt daggers through whoever dares to disturb its light. His hair matches this fire, but more literally. Vibrant, red curls frame the man's face while the rest is contained in a blue ribbon. There are strands hanging astray in multiple places, but they appear as if they were perfectly positioned, for they compliment the man's facade. As I draw my attention back to this individual's face, I am able to effortlessly record many more of his features in my mind. His freckled cheeks which are stained red from generous amounts of sunlight are joined by his somewhat pointed nose. Below that are his thin lips. They have not been shredded by the blistering heat yet. They are light red in color, and they appear soft and tender. They hold the perfectly arched Cupid's bow shape that is ever so valuable to the industry and requirements of beauty. I hurriedly snap my focus away from this man's lips. Anyone should know that if one is to gaze upon another's mouth for a long period, one may be interpreted as having strong or ill-mannered desires. Although I do not hold strong desires at this very point in time, I will not hesitate to admit to myself that I find this man exceedingly attractive. In fact, based off of his combination of hair and eye color, he is quite a rarity, and a beautiful one at that.

So that the uncomfortable silence does not take purchase over the entire atmosphere between us, I speak out with the intention of holding together healthy conversation. "Since you seem to know my identity and title very well, may I have the liberty of learning yours as sort of an... exchange, I could say?" I ask with a hint of dominance with the hopes of making my presence clear.

"I am Alexander Hamilton, George Washington's aide-de-camp and your superior officer," Alexander snaps. In this very moment, I can tell that this "Alexander Hamilton" has a strong personality. He is not one to be messed with. Yet, I observe that I might later have every intention of testing those boundaries. Lord know where I could end up due to doing that. Alexander seems to have already made a gracious effort to make sure that I know my place. I flinch as I feel the soldier that stands before me degradingly swipe his hand from mine.

"Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't know that I still held your hand," I make an effort to apologize, but it appears to hold no effect.

"Well then, Mister Laurens, You simply must sharpen your senses," Alexander jeers in a motherly tone. My expression grows apprehensive as my brows knot together with irritation. Alexander only looks at me with a mischievous and mocking gaze and a smug grin plastered across his lips. He has a lingering countenance of pride. I give him a questioning stare, my head bobbing to the side ever so slightly which helps to make my point. Before I can speak, Alexander does just that for me. "It was loose. You didn't even succeed to acknowledge my arm reaching behind your head," Alexander explains as he holds up my navy blue, satin hair ribbon and teasingly places it between his teeth with a spark in his eyes. This man has an inexplicable amount of charm and wit. It draws me in effortlessly, perfectly reenacting my thoughts of predator and prey. Alexander is taking every chance he gets to take me into the palm of his hand and manipulate me, even though we've only just met. His charisma is seducing and powerful, and I hate it. I've established that much.

As a more prominent simper dances across Alexander's expression, prompting me to retrieve the ribbon from his mouth, I witness a gloved hand reach in between us and grab the satin. Alexander's smirk is quickly replaced by a growl of agitation while he begins to jump for my ribbon which is being held by this new man above his head. He is quite a bit taller than Alexander, but he still fails to come anywhere near my height.

"Stop toying with this poor homme, mon petit lion," the man scolds in a heavily accented French voice. He is slim with a long face and dark, hazel eyes. His uniform is far more decorated than most and his hair is excessively powdered, held together in a long, white, extravagant braid. Without moving his hand from its place in the air, the Frenchman turns to face me with a warm grin upon his features. "Bonjour, mon ami. Je m'appelle Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette. But of course monsieur, you are more than welcome to call me Lafayette. You must be John Laurens," Lafayette rambles in a soothing tone. He gently hands me the blue strip of cloth that Alexander had stolen from me only moments before.

"Yes, I am he," I respond as I take my hair piece from Lafayette and bring it around the back of my head. "You're the man who came here from France. Dressed as a pregnant woman, If I'm not correct?" I address Lafayette with a small chortle while I finish tying my dirty, messy, blonde hair back once again. Lafayette's cheeks, which are also freckled similar to Alexander's, redden at this comment. Alexander snickers from beside me, obviously with knowledge of the affair that I speak of. 

"We shall refrain from speaking of that particular instance. For your information, John, it was entirely necessary in every sense," Lafayette tells me sternly. He straightens his already pristine and flawless posture, seemingly making the point clear that he always knows exactly what he's doing. I can tell that Lafayette thoroughly enjoys having a very masculine presence. As does Alexander, but it is very visible, in fact, that masculinity comes a bit more difficultly than most for him. He has the slim and graceful hands of a lady and he has the perfectly carved jawline and clavicle of one as well. He is obviously not very muscle-bound. He has a fragile and almost hour-glass from. Yet, I get the impression that he is quite a bit stronger than he appears. I will no doubt be a target and loyal subject do this pain within days, for I am gifted with enough intelligence to perceive that my personality is not one that is or will be permitted within Alexander's consent. It is now that my tired, ice-blue eyes are opened and distracted due to a noise. At the distant call of another soldier, Lafayette steps to attention. "I apologize for such little interaction, but I really must report. I will be sure to speak with you when I am granted the time, Lieutenant Colonel," Lafayette bows slightly to me before making his way up the hill with a skip in his step.

"Lieutenant Colonel! Fancy. Do you have a sense of order to accompany that prestigious title, Laurens?" Alexander spits. My grin that has taken a nice and friendly place on my features falls quickly as soon as the red-haired aide-de-camp speaks. I do not answer him. Instead, I simply turn back to my recovering horse and begin to untie my belongings from the saddle. I freeze when I detect Alexander's hand on my shoulder which is gently pulling me around to face him once more. "I would advise against doing that, Lieutenant Colonel." Alexander's mocking emphasis lingers as he continues, "We are going to be marching to Germantown in order to camp there for the night. If I'm not correct, I would assume that you might want your bedding with you for our trip." I slowly lift my hands from their place, my embarrassment of already having done something wrong, which is showing like a bright and sunny morning. Still, this is quite a small misjudgment. I am sure that there will be many more clustering interactions that are, unfortunately, soon to come. "Come. The General will want to be notified of your arrival as soon as possible," Alexander pulls my hand in the direction of Washington's headquarters as he gestures to a young boy who takes my horse and toss her reins at a nearby trough.

"What is the General like?" I ask Alexander out of pure curiosity and lack of ideas for conversation topics. Alexander does not answer me. Instead, he turns to me. In the process of doing so, his gaze becomes sharp and strained, focused ever so intently upon my frame. It is as if he only realized now that he had never taken the time to learn my appearance. That is most likely the case. The man before me appears to be studying my exposition scrupulously, his eyes racking my every shape. I decide to do the same as an attempt to level our stance.

"You must simply see for yourself, John. May I call you John?" Alexander queries. I nod before I give myself a moment to consider his request. "Alright then. As I was saying, You will have to decide that for yourself. I am an exceedingly judgmental and opinionated individual. Therefore, I would be the least credible to provide you with an accurate description. On a side note, you have very nice eyes. I have not seen many blue irises in the camp. I find blue to be quite attractive," Alexander treads forward briskly as he finishes his comment. I am utterly annoyed by the fact that he has made such a large impression on me. I have never encountered anyone such as this before. This man arouses so many opinions from me that I brought to the point of confusion. Never have I so quickly been almost absolutely sure of my interpretation of someone, man or woman. Nevertheless, Alexander has sparked so many thoughts without warning. I feel strongly that I completely hate Alexander, but, the more that I consider the outcomes, I come to the recognition of the fact that I met this soldier no more than five minutes ago, and he has already started to steal into my affections without my consent. Damn my affections. Damn Alexander, but if only to allow him to accompany me in hell. Why must my emotions be so reckless? Why do I fail to keep myself away from these temptations that I know are pure sin and hellfire that disguise and dress themselves with pretty faces? The pure sin and hellfire that go by names. Names such as Alexander.

"I welcome you to Washington's headquarters," Alexander's voice drags me back into reality and out of the vast scape that I once called my mind but is now a complete dystopian jeu de folie. I take a breath to gather and compose myself prior to stepping over the threshold. As I do just that, I am hit with a wave of all the scents that I might expect. I take in gunpowder, the strong smell of ink and parchment, old wood, and... lavender and cinnamon?

"Bonjour Alexander. Who might this be?" The high and melodic sound of a female voice rings out from below me. I shift my head downward so that I can be met with the vision of the woman who has greeted us. This lady has a distracting smile which I take note of right away. It is genuinely cheerful and not at all artificial in any sense. It does not leave her face as she glanced from Alexander to me. She is pale and has an overall plump and rounded figure. Her hair is thin and silver, tied up in a messy bun that suits her very well. Her dark brown eyes compliment her brunette brows and lashes, making them quite unique for such a color. "Oh, Alexander! Did you finally make a friend besides the Marquis?" The woman exclaims with excitement.

"I am not his friend."

"He is not my friend," Alexander hurriedly, yet calmly interjects before continuing, "I do not acquire 'friends'." To some, his words may pierce, but to me, they do not. Yet. There is an uncomfortable and unnerving moment of silence after the shorter soldier speaks. The woman with the silver hair stares straight through Alexander with what looks to be concern and disapproval. Alexander only stares right back, seemingly challenging the poor lady. Still, Alexander appears to know better.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, dear," the woman turns to me, having to strain her neck further back than I assume she intended. "My god, you're tall. May I learn your name, sir?" She inquires kindly.

"I am Lieutenant Colonel John Henry Laurens, so of South Carolina senator, Henry Laurens," I introduce myself. I can tell that the woman notices my minuscule reaction as I realize that I quoted exactly what Alexander had said to me outside. Before the woman can tell me her identity, she is interrupted.

"Alexander," the General who stands before us addresses in a deep, rich voice. His eyes come to rest upon me. "I see that you brought a friend with you," Washington grins. I feel that he knows what Alexander's response will be like.

"He is not my friend," Alexander repeats, his voice harsher and his expression more stern this time. Washington only shakes his head while laughing softly to himself. Yet again, the General is shorter than me. I have seen this man in paintings and other forms many times before, so I find no need to take notice of his specific features.

"I heard from your father, Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens. He definitely does not approve of your decision to go to war," the General informs me as if I do not already know. I would think that because of this, the General would not be the happiest in the terms of my arrival. Yet, as I study his dirty-green irises an pursed lips, I am able to perceive that it is not me whom his disappointment is fixed upon. It is my father. I smirk with pride at this revelation.

"My father's opinion is no longer of any value tonne. I will, If course, communicate to him as any true and devoted son would, sir. It's only that there are a lot of things that we do not agree with one another on," I tell Washington, making sure that my tone adequately portrays the fact that my father and I are most certainly not in good terms. The General nods in acknowledgement of my hint. I have already developed a strong liking for this man. He seems to understand each soldier and their opinions and motives as if they were his own offspring. The General ponders for a moment before turning in his heel toward Alexander. 

"I assume that Martha suspected a connection between the two of you as well," Washington chuckles nonchalantly. I have to place my hand over my mouth in order to prevent myself from snickering. Alexander is exceedingly reckless, cantankerous, and impulsive. But along with this, I cannot help but notice that he is so small. Therefore, his fueled outbreaks are very amusing. "Alexander, " as the General speaks once again, Alexander's arms snap down to his sides. "I would like you to accompany John on our march to Germantown for the sake of remaining welcoming to our new addition", Washington's voice is kind, but still with a commanding undertone.

"Me? Why can't the Marquis? He is much more fit for this than I am. I am sure that Joh-Lieutenant Colonel Laurens would not want me out of all people to travel with him! I am annoying, unpleasant, I'll-minded, obnoxious-" the General cuts Alexander off with a single degrading glare prior to responding to the aide-de-camp's arguments.

"Alexander. Although many of these claims may be true, you are being very disrespectful to the Lieutenant Colonel. Honestly, Hamilton, you act like an immature child! You know that Lafayette must ride with me in the front lines. Besides, I hypothesize that the both of you will become quite close," Washington speaks with ease while still managing to uphold a threatening tone. I witness Alexander sneer and his teeth grind as General Washington finishes.

"Are you implying something, General?" Alexander interrogates. His voice is husky and strained, a deep growl emanating from his throat when he talks. Washington does not stir at this sound, but I do. Mrs. Washington, the General, and Alexander look to me briefly as I flinch, an expression of sympathy coming to rest upon Mrs. Washington's face. The General breathes deeply and in a labored manner before answering.

"Yes, Alexander, I am," Washington's irritation toward his side burns throughout his entire being. The flame is only growing. Alexander seems as if he is going to lash back, but he relieves his tense stance as the General's wife places her hand on the red-haired man's back. "You should prepare formation for the march to Germantown now. You will obey my orders, Alexander, and you will not question my intent. It has been a pleasure to encounter you personally, Lieutenant Colonel Laurens. Dismissed," General Washington waves us away. Alexander gruffly treads out the door, pulling my arm so that I know to join him. I whisper under my breath for God to help me. I have managed to maintain my sanity up until this point, remarkably, but I am afraid that this day may be my last when on the subject of this feat.


	2. Pebble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John pushes Alexander too far. He is in a state of sheer regret.

I walk stiffly, trying to mask my pain. There is an abnormally large and sharp pebble in my previously pristine, black, leather boots. It rolls with my every step, piercing my foot repeatedly in multiple areas. Alexander moves next to me in the middle of the past while I hold my horse on the far right and he leads his brown stallion on the far left. We have made frugal conversation thus far throughout the journey, but I am honestly not surprised. At the moment, Alexander is rambling on about something to the extent of how inconveniently the soldier's personal lives coexist with their duty. I think that Washington's hypothesis of the well-spoken aide and I developing strong bonds will not become a reality.

"Do you happen to have a family of your own, John?" I am startled by Alexander's question, for my attention has been well fixed on other matters. I find that what Alexander has asked of me requires for me to take a moment and rack my brain on the matter. I am filled instantly with guilt. How could I forget my dear Martha? One of my most loyal friends? I left her but only a number of days ago, and the place in my mind that is reserved for none other than her has been completely forgotten. As I look to Alexander, I can tell that he has grown impatient.

"No, I do not," I am baffled by my answer. I seriously do not know what is wrong with me. My poor wife would be very upset with me at the moment. I am beyond discouraged with myself right now. Yet, maybe it might be better if others did not know of Martha. My marriage with her is disorganized and against my consent. Besides, if I now say instead that I do have my own family, I am sure the Alexander would not find that promising.

"Really. I am surprised that a man such as yourself has not encountered any woman who finds you appealing enough for marriage," Alexander states matter-of-factly, the smallest hint of a smile playfully trickling across his lips like dew. I am slightly taken aback by this comment. He cannot mean what it sounded like. Alexander immediately takes note of the confusion of my reaction. "Do not question my judgment and modes of analyzation, Laurens. I can absolutely assure you, I know beauty when I see it," Alexander announces. This time, he barely even tries to keep the coquettish simper that he has been holding back at bay. I feel the heat rise to my cheeks, my face imitating the feeling of a lit fire during a cold winters night. Alexander's ingratiating presence is becoming very irksome, very quickly. Though, what I dislike the most is the fact that when he flirts with me, if I can call it that, I find it to be quite misleading. Alexander seems to show great pride in his attitude. I decide to change back the subject.

"Anyways… Where is your family from?," I inquiry. All expression erases itself from Alexander's face within mere seconds. He bows his head to the ground, pure defeat showing in his every movement. He appears to be inimitably uncomfortable.

Alexander then looks up to me. He gazes directly into my eyes. Within his violet-indigo irises, I can see more emotion than I've seen from most anyone. I can see the pain of many years of horrific things behind those eyes. Alexander acts very independent, yet, I see something that says differently. What I see in the storm, no, the hurricane that lies in front of all the pain as a masking device, is a man who wants to be… loved. I bring my mind to a complete halt as I notice Alexander open his mouth in order to speak.

"Unimportant."

The pebble is lodged in between my heel and the back of my boot. It is causing me great discomfort.

"Unimportant? I honestly doubt it. You must have some family that you can tell me of," I comment, attempting to lighten the mood by keeping my tone pleasant and somewhat carefree, but not aloof. Alexander only drives his sight away from me and forcefully examines the ground such as before. He swallows aggressively, his throat trembling as if he's being choked. His breathing is growing heavy, and I can tell that he is struggling to control it. His lips part tremulously, remain parted for a lengthy interval, but then press together in a regretful way. He does this repeatedly every couple of minutes, leaving me in raw and excruciating anticipation of the words that lie trapped on his tongue. I know better than to prod, but all sense of self control seems to have been released from my conscience at this point in time. "Alexander-" he cuts me off.

"Shut up! What you have asked of me is unimportant! Irrelevant! I assume that your parents taught you to hold your tongue, but obviously I can see that is not the case! Therefore, I shall assist you by now telling you that you should remain silent for at least an entire hour for my sake if not for your own, Lieutenant Colonel. That is an order. "

The pebble pierces through my skin and is stuck there, causing my heel to bleed. It hurts.

I am silent. Alexander holds a perfectly steady walking pace as he glares through me in a hostile way. His hypnotic and alluring eyes, damn those eyes, are brimming with water and are becoming pleading and helpless. I want ever so badly to provide him with some form of consolation, but I have no doubt that it would only render the situation to be worse. The soldiers that surround us act as if they were never a witness to our quarrel. I know that is not true. As I glance back to Alexander, I see that he is holding perfect posture, but he still remains disheveled. He is biting his bottom lip as to prevent it from quivering. Then, I watch as the tear that has been gathering up on Alexander's lid finally falls, rolling down his cheek and leaving a wet and glistening trail. It gathers in around a droplet on his jaw and stays there is if it refuses to leave the surface of his skin. More tears follow the first, splashing down the side of his face like rainfall. I feel as if the guilt of a thousand men has come to rest atop my shoulders. I caused this. I am the one who made Alexander cry. If I were to ask myself why I show such remorse toward myself for this wrongdoing and I were to answer that I do not know, then I would be lying. I would be lying because I… I care for him. I have always been so easily manipulated and altered. Alexander. Alexander Hamilton with his strikingly fascinating appearance and is unique and interesting personality has made me care for him. And of course, the fact that I made him cry. Hell, simply because he is crying, I am overcome with labored and painstaking sympathy. I feel the greatest and most sincere pity for this man, and by now, rightfully so.

"I'm sorry," I can hear the sad smile in Alexander's voices as he sputters this. I whip my head to the right in order to see him, my expectations at their worst. Alexander's is swollen from the amount of pressure that was emitted when he bit it. His eyes are bloodshot and soft, still coated in moisture from his previous reaction. I can see the dried lines of water that streak down his face. His doleful smile is in dire need of solicitude. He himself does not want it, but he does not know that it is valuable.

"Excuse me?" I finally bring myself to act upon my unbridled incertitude. With the strength of the culpability that I feel, I find that it would be quite unfitting to do anything other than repudiate Alexander's apology. I must say, I have not even the most vague idea of what Alexander might be apologizing for. Nonetheless, I will soon find out, for Alexander seems to have every intention of elaborating.

"I am sorry for lashing out at you. That was very unprofessional and inappropriate of me. Regrettably, that is not antithetical of my character, but I shall try my hardest to spare you of my typical outbursts. I will tell you with utmost sincerity that I struggle quite strenuously to concede that one has done nothing to provide me with justifiable reasons to attack them, so I should apologize in advance if a circumstance such as this is to occur again," Alexander rambles. He tries to keep his voice steady and controlled, but he fails miserably. Multiple sentences that he speaks are interrupted by the short and vigorous intakes of breath that he has been subject to ever since after he yelled at me. It is no mystery to me at this point that this man is not at peace within himself. Such a reaction can only come from a traumatic background. I want very badly to know of this story, but the very last thing that I wish to do is to hurt Alexander more.

"I will not except your apology, Alexander, for it is not what should be said. If anyone is to apologize, it is to be me. I was the one who provoked you to become upset. I feel absolutely horrific about this whole situation. I can promise you, Mr. Alexander Hamilton, that I will not let myself lie comfortably until this entire dispute is resolved in a correct manner," I state this quite a bit more sternly than I ever intended to. As I ramble on about my troubles, I place my hand softly upon Hamilton's back, my palm rubbing the surface as a gesture of consolation and friendship, not that he will except the latter, but it is always worth at least an attempt. Alexander flinches slightly at the affectionate touch. His back arches and I can feel his muscles tense underneath his uniform as he raises the position of his shoulders abruptly. I am about to remove my hand out of fear that I am causing him discomfort, but Alexander soon eases into the contact. He looks to me with those beautiful indigo eyes with an expression that can strengthen even the most unforgiving man. It is an expression of pure gratitude. I can detect nothing false about this emotion that he has directed to me. If I am not correct, I strongly hypothesize that Alexander does, in fact, have full comprehension that he is in dire need of that commiseration and assistance that is humanly required in situations such as these. Yet, I still think that he is simply not at all willing to divulge this information to himself. He must learn to do this for his own good.

As I bring my mind back into a more controlled state, playing over all that has recently happened, I find myself being drawn back to the General's instincts. He stated that Hamilton and I are to become very close. Look at Alexander. His expression imitates that of the stone, never once losing the stern and sure confidence and pride that this man displays and is graced with. He is noble and resolute, my esteem for him only grows, and I shun myself when I fully register that I am on fire thinking of Alexander Hamilton. At this point, I hope that the General is correct. In fact, I perceive that he will be if the odds are favorable to the desired conclusion. I now know, I will undoubtably make a companion out of Alexander soon enough.


	3. Alone

September 12, 1777

It has been over a day since we have retreated from Brandywine. Night has fallen upon the camp in a fleeting and graceful manner. All of the men have developed a burning hatred for the very likes of General Howe and his armies. General Washington, the Marquis, and myself have been waiting anxiously in the main headquarters. We have yet to hear of any news about Henry Lee and Alexander's progress at the Schuykill River. Lafayette and I speak with passion of tactics that could be used to dishevel Howe, hoping that once Hamilton returns, his contributions will perfect our proposal.

Hamilton and I have become very close within the past month. I consider him to be the most cherished friend that I have ever had. Why, even in such little time, he has become far more important to me than I discern that Kinloch ever had. I try ever so laboriously to forget that man, Francis, for I do not wish to be haunted by his presence ever again. As I rack my mind upon all of my unimportant personal troubles, I am alerted by the sound of the door to Washington's headquarters being blown open, a crack of thunder following it and fill in the air. The door is then hastily slammed, and footsteps can be heard treading into the room that the General, Lafayette, and I are stationed in. A messenger stumbles in the entrance, his clothing soiled by rain that causes his tailcoat to cling unforgivingly to his waist and arms. He holds a letter in his right hand. Lafayette and I rise expectedly from our chairs, our anticipation being showcased such as a rich man's eligible daughter. The messenger snaps to attention, his hands trembling vigorously as he does so.

"I hope correspondence from Captain Henry Lee, sir," the man blurts. His voice is coarse and rough. It is not the result of continuous yelling, but the result of lack of use. General Washington stirs from his stupor, his expression bright with hope. He gestures for the messenger to begin reading the report. "The British troops drove the men to Schuykill. They retreated there. Lee and his men retreated by land or by horseback, Hamilton and two others went upstream by way of a small, stolen boat," the man manages to say all of this between heaving breaths still exiting his lungs due to the intensity of his journey.

"Are there any casualties that I should be informed of?" The General inquires this with an edge to his voice, a concern that is quite recognizable. The messenger slowly glances downward at the piece of parchment in his palms. This is when the small male's breathing hitches. His legs begin to shake, his lips opening and closing like that of a fish. He appears to almost be afraid. Frightened of what comes next. The General clears his throat in a commanding manner, urging the messenger to speak.

The messenger swallows. It is very forced and unwanted.

"Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton's boat was shot and sunk in the river. Ha… Hamil… Alexander Hamilton drowned."

There's a silence unlike any that I have ever heard before. My head begins to pound. My sight blurs, I become lightheaded, and my knees buckle painfully. I collapse languidly into my chair, my breathing heavy, loud, and threatening. Lafayette rushes to my side, trying frantically to prevent me from losing consciousness. He intertwines his fingers with mine, providing me with a small form of consolation.

Alexander. He's dead. I find this information excruciatingly hard to process. I don't want to believe it. I refuse to accept that it's true. I keep opening and closing my eyes, attempting to wake up from this damn nightmare. I just want to wake up and have Alexander sitting next to me, alive and well. I want to see his shining and mischievous smile, his stunning and deep eyes, his attractive frame. I want to be subject to his flirtatious disposition, be haunted by his musical laugh, and be warmed by his charm and wit. This is the man that I have fallen in love with, and he's simply… gone.

"John… Are you going to be alright?" It is no surprise that Lafayette is the first one to communicate with me. He is aware of my interest in Alexander that is beyond platonic, for he expected it from early on. Must the Marquis ask this question? Does he not already know the obvious answer? I take a long breath, my eyes stinging from tears that I just now feel rolling down my cheeks. I stand with caution, grounding myself before I speak.

"No."

I briskly piece out of the headquarters, intending to retire to my tent.

~

Everything around me is cold. All I can bring myself to do is stare at Alexander's belongings that rest soundly atop his cot. His scent still lingers. It is… alive. Just like he was. I am so mad, yet I do not have enough energy to act upon my rage. Alexander was an incredible individual. Does God think that drowning in Schuykill River is a just fate for this man? My thoughts are interrupted when Lafayette and enters the tent. He mutters a solemn greeting and sits next to me on my cot, his brow creased strenuously with worry. I turn to him, pausing generously before speaking.

"Lafayette, how do you accept the fact that someone who you love is gone? How do you accept that they're gone if you now realize that you're more in love with them than you ever thought you could be? If you have a trick for that, then please… please help me," by the end of my plea, I have lost control of myself. I am sobbing, imploding mentally and emotionally by the second. Lafayette prepares to comment, but I cut him off. "Tell me that this is just some cruel joke. Please, Lafayette. It can't be anything more than that, can it? Everything is just so cold, so quiet, so… alone. I… I hate it. I want it to stop. I want him back. I need him back," I cough and sputter helplessly. My breathing won't stop abruptly hitching, my hands won't stop shaking, and I can't stop crying.

"John, mon ami, you can't keep going on like this. You must learn to move on. If you don't, you're going to be so miserable. Don't do this to yourself. Alexander, votre petit lion, he would not approve of you beating yourself such as this, no?" Lafayette softens his voice to its full potential, desperately wanting to comfort me. I have been holding an article of Alexander clothing, an undershirt in my hands. I press it firmly to my mouth. I kiss the fabric, a sign of respect, longing, mourning, and love for my fallen comrade. I allow my hands to slowly descend. They go limp, the white undershirt tumbling to the ground from my weak fingers. I am broken. Damaged, even. It was just so sudden. I had absolutely nothing to prepare me for this loss.

"They took him away from me, Lafayette. They took him away from me so quickly. He's gone now, all because of them. I'll track down whatever British soldier did this, and I'll beat the hell out of him. I'll beat him until he too is gone," my voice comes out in a low growl. My hands involuntarily clench into ready fists, and my teeth grind. I can just faintly detect as my senses are glazed over with bloodlust. All of this rage, this anger, this hurt, and this grief increases rapidly until Lafayette restrains me. It isn't violent restraint. A hand on my shoulder is all that it takes. And with that simple, calm touch, I collapse onto Lafayette side and weep aggressively into his epaulette.


	4. Grief

September 13, 1777

As I pull back the flap of my tent, I am greeted with the wafting scent of Alexander. There is a pang in my chest. It is a pain that I know will never cease to exist for as long as I live. He will never be back, and I will never recover. Before I know what I'm trying to do, I find myself standing before Alexander's clothing.

I gently lift a pristine tailcoat. It is littered with dust and other assorted residue from not being moved in a long time. I place the velvet green tailcoat upon Alexander's cot. I stare at it as it sits there, taking in the sight of Alexander's bed and coat without him in them. I must stop this. I am ripping myself apart. All because I fell for a singular man. A man who is now dead. Nonetheless, I continue my actions. I drape Alexander's tailcoat over my right arm, folding it neatly. I tuck the limp sleeves into the crease with care, my movement much slower than usual. As I go to place the tailcoat on top of a pile of Alexander's folded clothing, a piece of parchment slips out of the deep, soft pocket. I kneel without letting the coat slip from my grasp, and I unfold the piece of paper with one hand, tears already settling atop my eyelids. The parchment reads,

"'The fear of death is indeed the pretense of wisdom, and not real wisdom, being a pretense of knowing the unknown… and no one knows whether death which men in their fear apprehend to be the greatest evil, may not be the greatest good…'

'Be of good cheer about death and know this as a truth, that no evil can happen to a good man, either in life or after death.'

-Socrates"

My arms drop to the floor, hitting it hard. The tailcoat slips off of my arm, and I let it go. My fingers loosen, but the parchment does not fall. I slouch back against the footboard of Alexander's bed. My eyes are stinging, blurring from the amount of tears that haven't fallen yet. I bring my hands to my face and kneed my eyes with the heel of my palms in order to not cut myself with the paper that I'm holding. I am a complete mess. My scleras are red with bloodshot veins and my irises are saturated to the point of pain. My legs are sprawled out in front of me, my knees sagging and my thighs and calves are numb from the amount of vigorous tensing that has occurred when my body is racking with sadness. It is now that I detect the fluttering of the tent entrance. Lafayette is here.

"Are you any better, mon ami?" Lafayette prods hopefully. I clench my teeth, my breathing making a sharp and violent noise that startles Lafayette.

"No." I heave gravely. Lafayette sits down next to me. He moves his hand to clasp around mine, but I swipe my hand away with obvious refusal. I don't want to be consoled by the French man's warm palms. His soft and lean fingers remind me too much of Alexander's more affectionate and sentimental moments. I silently pass off Alexander's ironic note about the subject of death to my friend. As he reads it, grief takes purchase over his features, but he does not weep. Finally, I vent my frustration. "Why, Lafayette? Why did they have to shoot him of all people? Why couldn't it have been me? He didn't deserve that. If I was there, I would've saved him. I love him! Why does God think that he can take Alexander away from me, take him into the kingdom of heaven, and then place the weight of abhorring and incomprehensible pain upon my shoulders?" I start my banter slowly, sadly, but I pause out of rage. I jump to my feet, dragging Lafayette with me by the hem of his cravat. He chokes as I do this, but I pay no mind to it. I continue with reckless abandon. "Why can't I accept that he's gone? Why does he have to be gone? Why can't I realize that he's never coming back? If anyone has an answer, then by all means, inform me! Just… why? "I am yelling loud enough that my throat is as raw as ever. Lafayette slams his fist down upon the writing desk in front of him.

"You cannot accept this fact because your valued him, John! More so because you knew him," Lafayette is practically screaming at first, but he slows his place very quickly. I cock my head to the side in confusion, waiting for some form of explanation. Lafayette acts upon this. "You know that Alexander would never give in to anyone or anything. You know how many situations that he has escaped from unscathed because of his charm and intelligent brilliance. Therefore, you believe that Alexander must've found a way to make it out of this alive, and you need to stop open for that." Lafayette's words pierce me like a bullet. All I can think is that he is absolutely correct. I collapse to the floor, crying. I stay like that for at least an hour, and all the while, Lafayette stands before me with a facade of concern plastered across his face.


	5. Letter

September 14, 1777

It has been one day since the reported death of Alexander Hamilton, and I am barely managing to survive through the second. Retiring to my tent is a laborious task within itself, for I know that I will be utterly alone for the remainder of the night. The camp is unsettlingly silent. All of the other privates along with soldiers of higher rank have gone to the local pub. I know that they will be absent for a long while. I know my colleagues. I languidly through my hanger sword and musket down on top of my bedding. I pause briefly. Without Alexander my midst, I am unable to hear the soft scratching of a quill against parchment. I am deprived of the tapping of the calamus against glass, working to maintain steady and admirable flow of ink. I must fill this empty void. I briskly plant myself at my writing desk. I swipe my quill from the ink bottle and rest it upon the paper.

"My dear Alexander,"

Sweet Jesus. What am I doing to myself? What have I become? This man has stolen into my very mind and soul without my consent. This longing is eating away at my vulnerable being, as it is being given the perfect chance. All of this aside, I continue.

"The entire camp is devastated upon hearing of your death. You have left the general, the Marquis de Lafayette, and myself in utter anguish. We are three men who, and I am able to speak especially for myself when discussing this matter, loved you ever so tenderly. Your departure was sudden, and it came as a great shock to the Marquis and I. We had nothing to prepare ourselves for this pain. This suffering has caused me to ponder something that has grown quite fascinating to me: did you intend to leave such an impression? If you did, then you surely have not missed your aim. I must say, your death does fit the theme that your lifestyle was plagued with."

It is now that memories come flooding back. Alexander was always so bold. He had impressive physical features and social skills that he never failed to use to his full advantage. I have been witness to far too many escapades in Alexander's days that were undoubtably result of his specialties. I have seen countless people being brought down in flames by the spritely, ginger man and his arguments. I can safely say that Alexander was the most spit-fire man that I have ever met. He was utterly unbeatable. I have also seen dozens of women swoon over him on a wide number of occasions. Still, up until the day that he died, I know that there has only ever been one man to have swooned over Alexander Hamilton. I now turn back to the letter.

"I am sure that the women who we find at work along our marches will surely feel a great emptiness and quiet without your presence, you jest. Although I write my most recent claim with joviality, that is certainly not a relevant tone in my life frequently. I am afraid that I am currently facing the darkest of days. I have been trying desperately to fill the excruciatingly desolate void that you have left behind. Oh, Alexander. What am I even looking to do? Nothing could come even remotely close to settling into the space that you once filled. You held the power to manipulate me in more ways than you may assume. I sat in the palm of your hand. From the moment I met you, I made a fool of myself simply for the purpose of impressing a man whom I barely even knew. Even as I grew closer to you, I still strived for flattery. For God's sake, Alexander, look at me. You and your little games have driven me to the point of insanity. You captivated, infuriated, and stole me with your charisma, perspicacity, and your eyes. I swear to you, for some reason, those damn eyes of yours could always draw me in. I must admit, they were beautiful. I miss them. I miss you. I miss the mischievous quirk in your brow that I would see to detect one of your more impious moods. I miss your epiphanies of greatness. I recall how excited you would become. You would pace the length of the tent, rambling in to me about your next brilliant idea. It has become so quiet without you. I am unable to ente"

My tears soul the parchment. I am unable to write over the wet material. I move my quill to the bottom of the sheet.

"It appears that I have soiled a great deal of my writing space.

You know the unalterable sentiments of your dear and affectionate Laurens~"

I have so much more parchment and ink to spare, but I must stop doing this. Lafayette is concerned for this very reason. How depressed I am is sure to be the death of me, ironically enough. Alexander toyed with me just as a house cat does with yarn. Then, he left my world faster than anyone had anticipated. Our relationship resembled a comedy! I generate an overly despondent smile as I place myself upon my cot whilst lingering on this thought. Although the plot of our interactions may have most certainly been similar to common tropes in the comedic genre, my time with Alexander tragically ended in a Shakespearean twist. I am sure it wasn't meant to be this way. As I lay down in my bedding, still sobbing, I pray to the lord on high that what I assume is correct. It is beyond ludicrous, but I simply cannot stop myself from hoping that Alexander still lives.


	6. Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John can't sleep soundly anymore.

September 15, 1777

"Retreat!" Captain Henry Lee bellows as a small group of Continental soldiers spill out into the area that surrounds the Schuykill River. The all too familiar sound of muskets being loaded, canons being fired, and hanged swords being wielded rings throughout the mist-infested air. Hamilton and his men ready their ammunition, prepared to disarm any of the British soldiers that are up approach them. Any soldier with the gall to do that most certainly has a death wish. "For the love or god, get yourself and the men in the boat!" Lee is mounting his horse, obviously fille with anxiety.

"Yes, sir," Alexander yells. He motions for his men to get into the dingy that is docked in the river. Hamilton suddenly turns as he detects footsteps nearing the river. Much to his horror, these are not the footsteps of more Continental men. Several calvary regiments from the British army emerge in front of Hamilton, Lee, and their soldiers. They hold solid countenances of unadulterated bloodlust. Any sensible man would know that the British are far from being shown now. The dragons raise whatever weapon that they have the quickest access to. Hamilton raises his musket in turn, determination being ever so visible on the aide's face.

"You are not strong nor powerful enough to fight them, Lieutenant Colonel. Save yourself and deliver the word upriver!" Lee shouts, straining his voice so that he is heard above the canons and ships. The Captain is unable to see how close the British truly are. Lee coughs as he inhales strong and dangerous gunpowder. 

"Ride!" Hamilton desperately screams over the noises of war. Lee whips his mare and hooves can be heard pounding against the ground through the fog. A large gale sweeps over the landscape, catching in the hollowness of the musket barrels. Alexander finds this threatening due to his inability to see the British through the grey vapor. Hamilton notices the uncomfortable silence that lies between these two different types of men. Their very distinct beliefs lead them to call themselves different. The indigo-eyed man acknowledges this. In result of this acknowledgement, Hamilton raises his musket. With care, he pulls the trigger and waits. It is not long before the sickening groan of a young man comes through the atmosphere. The soldier's body hits the ground with a labored thud.

"Get in the damn boat!" Hamilton's men call out to him as if they are children in distress. The dragons advance with vigor, their ammunition rising so as to defend their fallen private. Alexander stumbles backwards over the rocks that make up the shoreline of the river, frantically trying to escape the perturbed British calvary regiments. The Regulars quite literally fire shots in the dark as the gaze thickens and the night grows leaden. Luckily, Their improvised aim is absolutely terrible. Lead musket balls scream past Hamilton and his comrades, landing in the current of Schuykill. Hamilton finally manages to fall into the dingy, picking up the phase at which he's doing things.

"Row now!" Hamilton barks at his two men, for they each already hold a paddle in their hands. Te small boat begins to move as hurriedly as it is able to against the strong currents. Even with how difficult it is to see, the redcoats still trail close behind the boat, never ceasing fire. One of the men rowing cries out in agony as a bullet enters his palm. Hamilton takes notice to this and skillfully takes the position of the wounded soldier. The other man in the boat who is still rowing and remains untouched laces his fingers through that of the bleeding private, glancing at him repeatedly out of worry. Hamilton witnesses this. "What are you doing?"

"We are masons, sir," the man replies with sincerity. Hamilton gives a look of understanding. Masonry. The bond of brotherhood will never be maintained quite as diligently. It is now that two specific shots are fired by the British. Two specific shots that do not miss. The first hits the man who had not yet been injured, sending him into the water. The second hits the boat, causing it to sink rapidly. Hamilton watches as the man who remains is swept off of the craft and is sucked into the freezing river. He does not reappear. In an attempt to spare his own life, Hamilton launches himself from the failing dingy and aggressively swims upstream.

"All fire in the area that I have shown you!"

These words strike fear in Hamilton. He feels around himself for a ledge or Roch, his hands and forearms slapping the water aimlessly. He finally wraps his body around a large rock in the middle of the river when the British begin to fire. The bullets narrowly miss multiple times. Hamilton shifts his weight on the rock cautiously. He steadied himself, his eyes wide until he hears the whistling of a bullet against wind. Hamilton moans. His mouth falls open and his grip loosens. He starts to choke, blood eventually bubbling up into his throat. He coughs it up. His body is then fully submerged. There is no trace of him, and for a moment, the river seems peaceful and clean. At this instance, his body, dead in every way with a stinging bullet hole through his lung, comes up through the waves. It isn't until now that I know he is never coming back.

"Alexander!" I awake very unpleasantly. My sheets and garments are soaked with sweat, and I can feel tears streaking down my face. I am breathing heavily and laboriously. I tremble in shock, the tremor shaking my cot. "Alexander, I had a nightmare that you were shot and killed in the Schuykill River. Please say something. I must know that you are unharmed," my naturally deep voice continuously breaks due to me current state of mind. There is no response to my plea. I whip my head to my right, only to find that Alexander's bedding lies untouched. It all comes back to me. Alexander is dead. He was shot in the Schuykill River. A wail comes up out of my stomach where my heart lies broken and bleeding, shattered as if it were struck by a canon. The bone-chilling noise rears its way through my theist. It has almost escaped, when I close my hand tightly around my neck, trapping it inside with a gag instead of a cry of unearthly grief. I cannot carry on as loud as I please. I mustn't alert the other soldiers of my condition. 

Despite my efforts to silence myself, I am all too aware that my tears cannot be stopped. They roll inexorably down my face in warm trails as I bring my palm to my lips. I heave into my hand, my breath being drawn in on sharp inhales. I am gasping and mourning when my mind begins to replay my night terror. I picture Alexander clinging to the stone after he's been shot. His once bright eyes go full and glaze over in a ghostly way. His jaw drops, his perfectly shaped lips cracked and cut. He coughs. It is not the dry cough that is commonly emitted by the ill soldiers in camp. It is a cough that has brought up fluids from inside the body. He coughs once more, and blood comes out of his mouth, spraying over the rock before him. The red substance bubbles over his bottom lip, falling down his chin in an alarmingly thick stream. He heaved again. This time, a wave of blood comes out from his throat. It pours generously into the river. After this, it does not trickle down his chin, for his chin is now fully covered. It is enough that it instead rolls down his neck.

The scenes playing out in my head are so graphic that it sends me over the edge. I feel the liquids boiling in my abdomen. My throat and vocal chords are constricting rapidly, and my head is spinning. In one sudden movement, I double over in pain, opening my mouth in a forced manner. A vile, water-like liquid comes forth it hits the ground in a strong flow, flattening the grass below me. The sound is abhorring, a gargling in my throats that couldn't be matched by anything else.

"Monsieur, are you alright?" Lafayette practically sprints through the front of my tent. His tent is directly next to mine, so it's no wonder that I woke him. I part my lips to apologize for disturbing him, but my stomach cannot be controlled. I throw myself forward once again, the light brown liquid that is somewhat similar to groundwater now that I see it spilling into the soil in great abundance. Lafayette is at my side in a matter of seconds. As I continue to regurgitate, I can still just barely detect Lafayette placing his hand on my back in dismay. He strokes my hair in a loving manner until I finally finish. Alexander did that the last time I became sick. "What's wrong, mon cher?" Lafayette inquires worriedly. I struggle to respond.

"He's-" I am cut off by more fluids that rise out of my stomach. Lafayette positions himself in front of me, moving a soft, gloved hand to the side of my face. Perhaps he was not yet asleep. This reduces my guilt by a small amount. I stop throwing up after a duration of what seems to be five minutes, but I still cough. I know that I will not vomit again, for my stomach is empty. I sputter, my mouth dry and foul. Lafayette lifts my head up by my chin, my ice-blue eyes meeting his gaze lines. He benevolently wipes my tears off of my cheeks with his thumbs.

"What were you going to say, ma chérie?" Lafayette's tone is that of a close guardian, filled with affection and concern. Without moving my head, I gaze in the direction of Alexander's empty cot. I burst into aggressive sobbing almost immediately, each movement I'm making bringing me close to loosing consciousness because of how ill I have made myself.

"He's gone," I hiccup helplessly. I cling to the fabric of Lafayette's tailcoat with both hands as he stands before me. I rest my forehead upon my knuckles as I cry. Lafayette soothingly rubs my back, his touch being too similar to Alexander's. I would normally pull myself away for that very reason, but this time, all I want is to confide in my dear friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave your opinions and thoughts in the comments below. It would be much appreciated!  
> Edit: I've decided to reveal stuff about myself because why not. If you'd like to know mainly how old I am, or anything else, ask in the comments below.   
> -Starlord2004


	7. Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John desperately speaks to Alexander and acknowledges the fact that he himself is a being sent from hell.

September 16, 1777

"Alexander, did you happen to-" I silence myself as I recall the fate of my poor companion. I release a forced sigh as I sit atop my bedding. All throughout the day, I have been longing for a break. The events of the previous night have lead me to make myself exasperatingly ill, leaving my body weak and in need of care. "Why Did you feel the need to depart from us with such hurry?" As I say this, I gaze up towards the heavens above me. I am aware that I am speaking to a dead man. I feel that he can still somehow hear me. If God will allow me to pray to my mother who has been gone for seven years, having died when I was only sixteen years of age, then he will allow me to speak to Alexander who has been gone for three days. Today marks the fourth. 

"I found a slip of parchment in the pocket of your green, velvet tailcoat. It seems to me that you enjoyed philosophers such as Socrates. I wonder if you find it amusing that I was lead to find quotes concerning death, considering the circumstances," I chortle gravely, failing to emit even the smallest amount of an ingratiating disposition. In all honesty, my reckless friend is probably laughing hysterically at my state from where he is now. He was one to jeer others on the subject of their emotions and weaknesses. Most everyone called him heartless. I know that he was not. I remember his devotion.

"The was is lost without you. You fought in every way possible. The men all agree that you were painfully analytical and judgmental, blind from emotions from the soul. I beg to differ. I am aware that you won't agree with this, but I know it's true. I do not have to fret about your ranting, for you have passed," I swallow back a sob, but I am crying brutally. "Whenever you would tease, you would become smug and easily amused. You had the goal to make others uncomfortable or flustered. I know that once you were provoked to anger, you would stand with your chest out and your arms flexed and stationary. You would start your speeches with the calmest, most soothing tone that I have ever heard escape the lips of man. You would gradually make your way to the point of yelling. Your temperament was obnoxious, that much is true, but I miss it," I speak with a raw and tremorous tone, my hands beginning to shiver. 

I feel as if I am being gutted and torn. My organs, my heart especially, are aching. So this is what a broken heart feels like. I've swallowed it whole and it lies beaten and bruised in the acids at my core. My blood flow seems painful, almost. It's incredible how much you are able to take note of when you are in such a horrible state of mind that it causes you to expect your life to end. When you have the urge to end your own life because someone who you love is gone for eternity. If I labeled another as overly dramatic in the past, then I wish to apologize now.

"I miss you. I miss everything that was unique to your character. I miss your face and the emotions that it was graced with. Through all of our time with one another, I never realized how much you truly meant to me until you were gone," I wail with force, my diaphragm seizing up. I know what is coming. Lafayette enters my tent just as I begin to regurgitate. He rests his palm upon my spine as liquid that is identical to that of yesterday sprays from my throat. As I attempt to relax the flow of fluids from my body, I am ridden with guilt as I take into acknowledgment the fact that, when thinking about the outcome of Alexander dying before he passed, it filled me with a great deal more grief than imagining my own father's death has ever brought upon me. I vaguely note the assurance that am my father's most unwanted offspring. I am afraid that it will forever remain to be such as that. 

"John, chéri, I brought you some food. You must consume liquid or you'll end up with a similar fate," Lafayette warns in a hushed manner. His words are not well chosen. I can detect his regret after reminding me that I, too, am only bringing myself closer to extinction. "You know that I did not truly intend that. I simply need you to be of good health. Alexander would've done the same. Despite all of his teasing, flirting, and dry humor, he would've cared for you just as I am while you're in this state. He loved you," Lafayette narrates emotionally as he lifts a spoonful of tasteless, yellowed broth to my lips. There is a carrot sitting in the spoon, but I refuse to eat it. I instead reluctantly sip the broth. I consider what my friend has said. My doubtful attitude that now holds precedence over my thoughts clouds my analyzation.

“He did not love me in the way that I did. The way that I still do,” I growl hoarsely, the scent and taste of my rancid stomach acids that line my throat coming out through my breath. My longing for Alexander was depraved. Everyone other than Lafayette would think that it is wrong and unholy. Of course anyone and everyone would. I am a homosexual. I am a living sin. I am a masterpiece, carved and shaped by the hands of Satan himself, sent from the very deepest depths of the fire of hell. I am a mistake. An unwanted, unneeded, useless, and disgusting waste of oxygen. I am a child gone wrong, an outcast in my mother’s own womb, so wretched that my father would slaughter me if he was given the proper chance. I am a being that is considered to be so utterly ghastly, in opposition to nature, and wrong that no one thinks that I could ever have been permitted to live by god. They question my existence, but I am alive. That is enough. I have changed my mind. Myself and my desire for my late companion is not depraved. It is simply irregular. That is all. If anyone is to discover my secrets, then so be it. They may do whatever they please with me. They can whip me, but I will stand resolute. They can strip me of my position, but they will regret it by the time of when our next battle comes. They can hang me, but I will not depart from this earth without them feeling guilt and questioning why they believe that I am so nefarious. If I really appear to be such a disgrace, then why am I here? If I am to love a man, to love Alexander, why is it any different than loving a woman? I’m ranting to myself again.

“I still love you, John,” Lafayette informs me. I turn to him with care, trying not to damage myself further. I smile softly at him, his cheeks turning a light shade of pink. His freckles remain visible over this pigmentation disturbance. It is somewhat attractive, but it is nothing compared to Alexander. I will never be able to gaze upon that man’s eyes again. This angers me.

“I am sure that your affection is true, but my heart will, unfortunately, forever lie in Alexander’s grasp,” I shudder with more tears as these words exit my lips my mouth remaining open as to allow Lafayette to pour more broth into my tongue. He seems to be, to a certain extent, taken aback by what I have just admitted. “I say that partially with jest. I know that you could never come to desire me and that you state your love platonically. I do not intend to assume that you are one to grow all too fond of a man,” I explain quietly, my throat strenuously restricting my volume. As I close my statement, Lafayette shows a hint of what looks to be disappointment in his expression. I am sure that this sudden change is simply his growing concern for my mental state. It couldn’t possibly be anything more. 

It is now that I come to the realization that I am acting more and more like Alexander. There has been so many times when I noticed that Alexander was rejecting all assistance. He needed it. He had lost so much that he had come to cherish, and he continuously tried to push it all behind him. I strived to help him, but he never told me of his emotions. He was always too ignorant and insecure to know that I cared. He was painfully aloof can but despite that, he found a way to be perfect. He was charming, charismatic, and different from all other men and woman that I’ve met in a way that none other could come even remotely close to being. He was a skilled hunter who could hit his mark, whichever woman or man it may be, with a clean shot that hid within a single glance. He was an epitome of bright colors and lively music and stories that were scattered throughout the vast scape that was him. That vast scale that took a part of me with it. It took me in the blood that spewed from his throat and it took me to the depths of the Schuykill where his dead body lies, never to be found again. I am refusing to help as if a part of him has filled the gap. What kind of a pair are we?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave comments down below with what you think is going to happen or what you thought about this chapter. I’m getting slow because I’m going through a lot with anxiety and depression right now. Seeing you guys comment makes my day, and I would absolutely love you if you could take the time to put your inferences and thoughts down there for me to read. I’ll respond to each and every one. Thank you so much for providing a loving and welcoming environment in these dark times. Bless you all.
> 
> -Starlord2004

**Author's Note:**

> So, I haven't published all summer. A lot of things came up. A lot of deaths, near death experiences, and relationships. Nevertheless, I started this story, and I swear to god, this is one I'll continue. I tried to make this historically accurate as possible, but, obviously, it's no where near exact. Either way, I hope that you enjoy this. The times when I publish chapters will vary.


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